


good morning, red bird

by orphan_account



Series: oumonth 2020 [3]
Category: danganronpa v3 - Fandom
Genre: Forgiveness, Introspection, Killing Game Was A Virtual Reality Simulation (Dangan Ronpa), M/M, Post-Game, loose canon compliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Momota’s heart thumps - one, two, three - and his own heart responds back, in an almost tender pattern. You, and, me.
Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi
Series: oumonth 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768354
Kudos: 28
Collections: Kokichi Ouma Month 2020





	good morning, red bird

**Author's Note:**

> haha i'm so late,,,, spamming my ao3 today and tomorrow so i can get all the oumonth stuff out kfjkg
> 
> decided to smoosh day 3 and day 4 together - so, emotions & pets!! i was in a bad creative slump the other day so i had some trouble writing the last couple of days aha,,,,,
> 
> well, enjoy some soft postgame where everyone is alive and in fact not jackasses (except for iruma and ouma- iruma hasn't quite forgiven him yet)

* * *

His fingernail catches between the smooth, silk linen of the window’s curtains and the rugged blue threading of blue hydrangeas that dance upon it in repetitive sequences that tie each stitch to the posh, translucent fabric.

If he were to look outside of the window - instead of the ceiling, in which the question mark patterns that overlap and interrupt each other evoke the wishy-washy thoughts of his prostrated mind despite his attempts at pulling himself out of the depths of that rabbit hole. The silicone spotted with hairline cracks and dirt, violet pools for eyes that look all too saccharine would see nothing but the desolate streets of early morning winter.

Ouma is preoccupied, however, with the beating heart his head rests on as the reverberation of Momota’s snoring crams itself into ears a little too red. The ceiling fan stopped spinning mere hours ago, meaning Momota turned it off - something Ouma is grateful for, because he left the fan on in the midst of winter. Again. Like always. A sigh pushes it’s way past his lips, a recurring noise that fills his ears a little too often.

Sometimes, when Iruma complains about it, he will respond with the notion that he’s making sure he’s breathing. She purses her lips afterwards, and he makes sure to leave out the fact he’s checking that the toilet paper - unusually sturdy, but maybe that was because it was VR - is wrapped around her neck, not his. 

Iruma and him don’t talk - neither do he and Gokuhara. 

Leaving behind old social habits had been easy enough, washed away by churning waters so deep and dark that it resembled the tossing of waves as they lap hungrily at his feet. Ouma doesn’t know how he remembers things like that - the pain of bruises that sprout along his cheeks like day lilies in spring and the sting of salt against his lips as he fumbled against slippery sand in an attempt to look away from the body thrashing below the surface of cold, dark water.

Before his thoughts go awry, riddled with seeds of doubt and misfortune, Ouma lets a paper-white hand curl around the sun-kissed bicep that hands limp in Momota’s current sleeping state. Checkered and galaxy print duvets drown him underneath bright, finicky patterns and it almost feels like he’s underneath the press once more until his jagged fingernail catches the stitches of cerulean hydrangeas that resemble blue skies - real yet fake all the same.

He listens to the heart beating against his head, rested carefully on Momota’s chest cloaked in a vibrant blue shirt Ouma had been insistent on him wearing. At the thought, his lips curl into an amused half-smile when the sigh of exasperation slinks into his ears at the recollection that Momota hadn’t at all been ready to let Ouma pick an outfit for him - and yet went along with it anyway.

Momota’s heart thumps -  _ one, two, three _ \- and his own heart responds back, in an almost tender pattern. _ You, and, me. _

The sun peeks and slips between the hairline cracks and peeling wood of the dirtied window beside him, casting rays of light across his barren chest. It feels strange, for there to be a semblance of cold as he kicks off the eccentrically patterned blankets and slips out of Momota’s arms, feet thudding lightly against the rotting wood of their apartment’s floor.

And then he walks, carefully - feet never dragging against the ground. They slide and slip, a methodic rhythm never lost even after a year out of the game. Akamatsu once described it like he was a fox, or a cat - or some other animal that stalks. Beseeching the idea that Ouma slinks smoothly across any surface, stalking and making patrols like her cat does at night.

Ouma remembers Akamatsu talking about her cat, and even seeing it. A gentle feline cloaked in muddied brown fur - spotted white across the back and face and paws, as each pitter and mewl and noise that leaves its body carries a sense of purpose. Always slinking across the floorboards of Akamatsu’s apartment - sense of purpose reverberated through each step taken.

Similar could not be said for Shirogane’s ferret, who she had named  _ “Slinky” _ , much to Akamatsu’s chagrin - to which the girl with a mess of blue hair argued back that it had been cute. Ouma could still hear himself laugh to this day - when told of this event, and how disappointed Akamatsu had seemed when retelling the tale only for her own kitten to have been named  _ “Connor”. _

A wry smile curls his lips upward, gone almost as soon as his previous one had been. Ouma wasn’t ready to forgive Shirogane just yet, not as d\ead set on it as he’d been with Momota. Every time she smiles, the wicked grin from the sixth trial twists onto her face. He knows he’s delirious, nights spent in bed tracing the confusing pattern of the ceiling that can either look like dandelions or question marks or anything in between, but it’s so unbelievably hard to register the soft curl of her lips as anything but malevolent.

He ends up humming to himself as pale fingertips open the wooden cupboards, chipped violet paint fluttering to the ground as they brush a little too harshly against it’s frame. Ouma gingerly pulls out the kettle - smooth cerulean pigment spotted with clouds and flowers courtesy of Yonaga. The tune slips easily past his lips, accompanied by the soft trickle of water as it clinks against the bottom of the tin basin. 

Yonaga seemed to be doing well - their last meeting contributing with her sunshine-filled smile and sun-kissed arm wrapped around Chabashira’s. He recalls the excited chirping from the artist, about how she’d picked up her craft again - resolving to move in with Chabashira in a beach house that radiates under the light of the sun.

The kettle fills easily, almost spilling over, and Ouma quickly moves it away from under the tap and shuts said faucet off. He lifts it up onto the stove, listening as it clatters against the heating plate of the gas stove. A paper-white hand brushes against the burner’s knob, eliciting a creak from the old metal stove. Ouma turns it up a bit more, before it clicks, and stagnates.

Moving over to the cupboard again is easy, as he hooks his fingers through the handle of two mugs - one with sunflowers and the other with blue hydrangeas. Ouma hums to himself again, listening to the soft thud that resonates through the countertop as he sets the mugs on top. After a moment’s pause, he turns to the freezer and pulls out a box of microwavable waffles. It’s easy, and it’s quick - they can make it to the group interview early today.

Ouma lets his lips curl into a small, tired smile at the thought of the interview - never once stopping his movements in placing the waffles into the toaster. It stays there, placid and still - as he listens to the simmer of the kettle’s water until it eventually boils over. Whistling escapes it’s spout, alongside the huffed clouds of steam that he waves away with ease. Ouma lifts it by its handle, never once flinching at the scalding surface, and tilts it over both mugs - the trickle of water and the thump of it against painted ceramic replacing the flustered shriek of the tin appliance.

His fingers twist the knob down, down, down - until it clicks again, and lays unmoving. Ouma doesn’t think about how that string of words could be applied to Toujou’s body, instead plucking the last of the tea bags out of another cupboard and dropping them carefully into the mugs. He hums again, pulling open the silverware drawer and clattering through mismatched cutlery until a teaspoon is found. Sloppily printed sunflowers dance along the handle, less defined than Momota’s mug. 

As the pendulum on Momota’s grandfather’s clock swings, a shime resonates through the house followed by the sing-song screeching of a bird from their bedroom. Ouma snickers at the loud grumbling that follows, before pulling the waffles out of the toaster and setting them down on two plates plucked rather swiftly from a drying rack nearby. Momota must have done the dishes the night prior, which turns Ouma’s smile into a sweeter grin. 

Too bad he used their bird to wake him up. Oops.

Thundering footsteps and creaking floorboards travel down the small hallway of their rotting apartment, before a disgruntled Momota appears at the doorway. Ouma shoots him a smile, before tugging the door to the fridge open and taking a container of strawberries and a bottle of syrup out of the side door. He kicks it shut behind him, before setting both objects on the island as Momota seats himself in one of the two stools.

“How was your morning song?” Ouma snarks, expression as mischievous as his voice sounds. Momota scoffs, and a parrot pokes its beak out from his mess they called hair before squawking. 

Ouma places the plates and mugs on the counter, seating himself at a stool opposite of the former astronaut. “Brats, the both of you.” Momota hisses, with no real bite to his tone of voice.

“Wow, I’m hurt!” Ouma pouts mockingly, hand raised to his chest in a sarcastic display of betrayal. And that’s only held for a split second, before his fingers twist around the neck of the syrup bottle and promptly drown his waffle in the amber liquid.

Momota grunts and tugs the bottle right back out of his hands after a moment, before spilling a little bit of it over his own waffle. He sets it down, and when Ouma reaches for it again, a pair of sun-kissed fingers flick Ouma’s forehead. It’s not hard, they both know that, yet a set of fake tears well in his eyes despite this.

“No. Don’t you fucking dare.” Is all Momota says before Ouma begins to wail. A loud sigh escapes the taller one’s lips, before he picks up Ouma’s fork and cuts off a piece of the former leader’s waffle. It’s then shoved into the boy’s mouth, much to his surprise.

“It’s way too early in the morning for this, and I _ really  _ don’t want another noise complaint,” Ouma chews, then swallows, then pouts. Momota huffs in response. “So finish your damn food because TDR just  _ had _ to make the interview this early.”

Ouma scoffs, but they eat the rest of their meal in a serene sort of silence. It isn’t until the bustling of the city’s traffic gets them to stand up, Ouma collecting their dishes and placing them gingerly into the sink. “You did the dishes last night, I’ll do ‘em after the interview thing.” Momota hums in response, offering the former leader a smile. 

They drape long winter coats over white shirts a couple minutes later, cuffed jeans wedged into heavy snow boots. They breath, and breath - their parrot resting gleefully in the cage nestled inside of their shared room - before Momota takes Ouma’s significantly smaller hand in his, before leaning down and locking their lips together for a brief moment.

“Good morning, red bird.” Ouma finds himself murmuring, as they lock the door to their apartment and amble down the cold, long, busy city streets.


End file.
